


Can't have a siege all by yourself

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [21]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, and unhealthy coping mechanisms, and weird aggressive foreplay, basically it's utter filth, this is full of angry feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-01-30 09:38:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21426106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: And the fucked up thing is… Tommy wants to trust him on this, because… hell. This is the guy who fried them eggs two nights ago and spent over ten minutes telling his dog all about the fancy new upholstery in his car, and sucked Tommy off in his bed, and argued with him about the monarchy afterwards, but it's fucking impossible. Tommy might as well stare up into the sky one day and just decide to take flight. He can't. He wants to, but he can't.In which some people work some stuff out in the most dramatic way possible.(This is a direct sequel to "Let it be deceived", so it's probably a good idea to read that one first.)
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: The desert is a waste of time [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1310750
Comments: 59
Kudos: 534





	1. Chapter 1

John goes back to Birmingham by train the next afternoon, which is a big concession on his part, because he hates taking the train with a passion. 

“You gonna… you know. Fix things?” he asks when Tommy drops him off at the station. 

“No,” Tommy say reflexively, and it doesn't feel like a lie, even though it probably is. “Absolutely fucking not.”

“Right, ‘course,” John says, sounding very sarcastic, and gets out of the car.

Tommy spends the entire rest of day running errands in London, checking up on certain things, keeping in touch with certain people. The later in the day it gets, the more restless he feels and when he finally knocks on Alfie’s door – did considered calling beforehand, but then decided against it, because it’s not like that bastard deserves the warning – he half-expects him not to open; despite the fact he’s most definitely there. 

Tommy can see the light through the windows. 

Turns out he’s completely wrong in his assumption, because Alfie wordlessly opens the door and wordlessly steps aside to let him into the hallway. Locks the door afterwards, meticulous about it as always, which is either a good sign or a very bad one. Tommy decides not to wait for him and marches off into the the direction of the living room, once he’s done stuffing his cap into his coat pocket and depositing his overcoat on the coat rack next to the door. 

He can hear Alfie following him, footsteps heavy and a bit uneven. He’s actually using his cane today. Once they’re in the living room, they just stand there for a few seconds, measuring each other. Tommy crosses his arms in front of his chest, resists the urge to take out a cigarette.

“So,” he says. He’s not sure what’s going on. Maybe they’re having a fight, maybe not.

“So,” Alfie says, sounding deceptively good-natured. “Right. Interesting day we’ve had yesterday, mate, wouldn’t you say?”

Given the fact he basically ended the whole thing, the last time he thought somebody from Tommy’s family knew about them, this seems like a strange reaction. It’s not what Tommy expected from him at all, but then again, that’s Alfie for you. This time around it’s even worse, because it’s not a misunderstanding and there’s nothing vague about it: 

John knows. 

There is no reversing that fact, nothing that could fix it – apart from maybe a bullet to the head, Tommy thinks suddenly, feeling pretty numb about the thought. Other people don’t think these kind of things, he’s pretty fucking sure, because normal people don’t feel the need to circle through all the possible and impossible options all of the fucking time, just because their brain won’t stop until they’ve considered every single angle there is, except… 

Except. 

He realizes that the exact same thought must have crossed Alfie's mind. Couldn’t even explain how that works, how he knows, just that all of a sudden, he _ does. _Time seems to slow down to a crawl. He blinks at Alfie and Alfie blinks at him, looking taken aback, chin coming up; he’s squaring his shoulders a bit, the way he always does when he’s caught out.

The silence drags on, becoming more and more tense by the second. They’re staring at each other like two animals that just rounded a corner and didn’t expect the other one to be there, caught off guard, but confrontational. 

Tommy thinks, weirdly detached, that he should feel worried right now, or maybe scared. At the very least reconsider this whole bloody thing. Walk out of here, _ something, _ because the guy he’s been fucking on a regular basis is seriously contemplating murdering Tommy’s brother, but for whatever godforsaken reason, the only thing he feels is quiet, seething fury. Who the fuck does that bastard think he is?

“If you _ ever,” _ Tommy says, as slowly as he can manage, and he feels like he’s shaking, despite the fact that he knows that he isn’t. Never does, not on the outside. “So much as _ try. _Ever. We're done. We're fuckin' through.” 

There's a scoff from Alfie, because Tommy is reusing his threat, something he's painfully aware of, so he has to up the stakes. “And not only that, but I'm gonna fuckin' come for you. Eh? I'm gonna spend every single second for the rest of my life making _ sure- _”

Alfie sighs then, a big, defeated gust of air, because clearly, he's insane. Doesn’t even pretend not to know what Tommy is talking about, doesn’t try to deny anything either. Rubs a hand over his mouth, visibly calculating.

"Yeah, all right, mate," he says, like he’s testing the waters. "Bloody calm down, fuckin’ hell. Not gonna try that, am I."

And the fucked up thing is… Tommy _ wants _ to trust him on this, because… hell. This is the guy who fried them eggs two nights ago and spent over ten minutes telling his dog all about the he fancy new upholstery in his car, and sucked Tommy off in his bed, and argued with him about the monarchy afterwards, but it's fucking impossible. Tommy might as well stare up into the sky one day and just _ decide _to take flight. He can't. 

He wants to, but he can't. 

Alfie can tell. It's fucking obvious he can tell, and he doesn't even seem to _ care, _ is the thing, because he just stands there, easy as anything, and says, “From where I’m standing, mate…” like he’s being _ reasonable _ here, like this is the most logical thing in the world. Christ, Tommy thinks, Jesus Christ, he _ hates _this fucking arsehole. 

He shrugs off his jacket and Alfie goes very still, narrowing his eyes. 

He silently watches as Tommy opens his cufflinks and takes out his collar, then sets everything down on the dresser. Pulls the suspenders off his shoulders, one at a time.

“The hell are you doing,” Alfie says, but it’s a purely rhetorical question at this point. He’s already staring at Tommy like a dog might stare at somebody holding food. 

“Fuck you,” Tommy says. 

He’s down to his shirt, starts unbuttoning it with quick, familiar movements. Alfie, close enough to touch, still doesn’t move, but he’s not blinking either. It’s entirely predictable and a triumphant fucking feeling at the same time. Feels like a victory, almost, not because it’s never happened before, but because… Tommy can just decide, can just _ make _that happen, apparently. Deep down, he always knew he could, but for whatever reason, he’s never tried it before.

Alfie reaches out then, maybe to help him get rid of the shirt, maybe just to touch him, but Tommy slaps his hand away. He’s not holding back in the slightest, palm connecting with the side of Alfie’s wrist, skin meeting skin with a loud crack. The force of it knocks Alfie’s arm sideways. 

There is a moment of stunned silence, and then Alfie makes a noise, breath going out of him in a big whoosh, halfway between amused and derisive. The whole mood capsizes from one second to the next, something tight and electric vibrating through the whole room. All of the air seems to have disappeared as well, leaving only hot, breathless tension behind. 

Tommy shrugs out of his shirt, starts unbuttoning his fly. Pretends to look down to see what he’s doing, but all of his attention is still focused on Alfie, who reaches out again. Doesn’t try to be quick about it, because they both know what’s going to happen; he’s just doing it to test the waters. Wants to see if Tommy is going to slap him again, probably, which… yeah. Yeah, he fucking is.

This time, Alfie’s arm doesn’t go that far because he’s expecting the hit, so there’s some tension in him now. Tommy slaps him away so hard his palm stings. When he looks back up, Alfie’s eyes have gone sharp, calculating. When Tommy takes a step backwards, he follows along instantly; carefully keeping the same distance between them.

The couch is right behind him and Tommy sits down on the armrest, putting one of his feet over his knee at an angle, starts unlacing his shoe. The first one drops to the ground with a dull sound. Tommy switches it up, unlaces his other shoe. As soon as that lands on the floor, he gets back up again. 

His face feels hot, adrenaline coursing through him,because Alfie is now staring at him like he wants to eat him alive. Tommy’s holds his gaze, pushes his pants down over his hips. Can’t help but smirk when Alfie’s eyes flicker down, registering the fact that Tommy left his underwear on. Did it on purpose, too, just to be annoying.

When he steps out the pants pooling around his ankles, he has to actually look down, and suddenly, there’s cool pressure against the left side of his neck. He knows what it is even before he checks, faint tremor running through him – Alfie's cane pressing right against his neck. 

He visibly has to put most of his weight on his good leg in order to do it and Tommy doesn’t feel sorry for him in the fucking slightest. It feels... proprietorial, like he’s staking his fucking claim, with a subtle threat of violence underneath. Could just decide to hit Tommy with it, wouldn’t take much at all. Not like he’s never done it before, either.

Anybody with an ounce of common sense would be worried, Tommy thinks, except he can feel himself getting hard instead.

Alfie watches him closely; seems to have arrived at the conclusion that Tommy’s not going to protest this maneuver, because he drags the cane down along Tommy’s collarbone until it’s sitting right against the bottom of his throat, right above his sternum, pushing into the spot where everything is soft and vulnerable none too gently. 

Tommy swallows reflexively. The pressure point of the cane doesn’t exactly restrict anything, because it’s too far down for that, but it’s… noticeably _ there. _ If Alfie decided to swing for him, he’d manage to crush Tommy’s windpipe without effort – probably wouldn’t even have to go that hard, flick of his wrist with some force behind it.

“Fuck you,” Tommy says again, sounding hoarse for some reason. Fuck, he’s hard. Alfie could kill him right now, could do all sorts of things, except he won’t, because Alfie _ wants _ him. Wants to put Tommy on his knees, wants to _ fuck _ him, wants to make him lose his bloody mind – wants to _ own _him, probably, and they both know it.

“Do yourself a favor, mate,” Alfie says, low and tense. “And shut the fuck up, yeah?”

“Go to hell,” Tommy says. He slowly reaches up and wraps his fingers around the cane and there’s nothing indecent about it, not really, but for some reason it feels fucking _ pornographic. _ Drags it downwards just as slowly, in a straight line over his chest and stomach until he reaches the top of his underwear where he’s teasing it against the fabric, pushing it down an inch with the cane.

They’re both panting when he stops.

“Get on the fucking couch,” Alfie says. “Go on.”

“No,” Tommy says.

“Yeah,” Alfie says, nodding almost absentmindedly, like that’ll convince him. “Yeah, mate. You, right, you’re gonna fuckin’ move right _ the fuck _ now.”

“No,” Tommy says again, trying to sound as bored as possible. 

Alfie takes a step forward, and then another, thumb and two fingers wrapped casually around the cane, tilting it up and out of the way, sliding his hand downwards as he goes, because Tommy still hasn’t let go of the other end. 

It’s a slanted barrier between them when Alfie stops, so close there's barely an inch of separation left. There's murder written all over his face, but he’s not trying to touch. 

“You wanna fuck me,” Tommy tells him. “You wanna do _ anything _ at all, you're gonna do it in your fucking bedroom. I'm not your fucking whore, you don’t get to order me around.” 

“Yeah, I do,” Alfie says immediately, which… well, Tommy thinks, heat pooling low in his stomach. It's true. He does. Doesn't mean he can’t fucking _ work _ for the privilege, though. “Also, forgive me, mate, yeah, maybe I'm missing something here, but what the fuck, right, what the fuck makes you think, in your head, that I even wanna fuck you? Hmm? What gives you that idea?” 

Tommy scoffs, because… it’s a ridiculous fucking question. Tightens his grip on the cane and guides the heavy, wooden handle towards him, slides it under his own chin. Immediately, there’s pressure there, because Alfie doesn't miss a beat – pushes Tommy’s head up past the point where the angle is entirely comfortable. They’re both breathing hard, panting right into each other’s faces. 

Alfie is chewing on the inside of his cheek, jaw working. 

“Ask me that again with a straight fuckin face, eh?” Tommy rasps. 

Alfie seems to seriously consider it, because of course he fucking does. _ Fuck, _ Tommy wants him. This mad, contrary, unpredictable bastard of a man who will make everything harder than it needs to be, for no other reason than he wants to sometimes, just because he’s feeling like it; who will fight Tommy every step of the way if he has to and not only keep up but _ enjoy _ doing it. 

Half of the time, Tommy’s not even entirely sure if he wants to punch him or spread his legs for him, but he’s absolutely fucking sure that he _ wants, _ wants so badly his teeth are aching with it.

"Get up the fucking stairs then," Alfie grits out. 

He doesn't move out of the way, doesn’t give him an inch, so Tommy has to brush past him, still wedged between the armrest of the couch and Alfie's body. He leaves his clothes where they are, because fuck it. This is Alfie’s stupid fucking house, almost as familiar as the back of his own hand by now; he can collect them later. 

Alfie takes longer on the stairs – Tommy’s not entirely sure if it’s because his back is acting up or because he is taking his sweet time, wanting to make Tommy wait for it. Bit of both, probably. Tommy doesn’t slow down for him, stomping up the stairs without looking back. In the bedroom, he crosses his arms, standing right next to the bed. It should feel ridiculous, wearing nothing but his underwear and socks with garters, but for some reason, he doesn’t fucking care. Not like Alfie is going to care. Alfie is going to want him no matter what; probably wouldn’t bat an eye if Tommy was waiting in here in full uniform or drenched in somebody else’s blood.

As if on cue, Alfie ambles into the room. The stairs took something out of him, but he’s obviously moving a lot slower than he actually needs to – Tommy’s not entirely sure when he became an expert on the matter, just that he _ knows. _ Alfie rakes his eyes over him without an ounce of shame. It feels like being touched, like an actual, physical sensation ghosting over Tommy’s skin. Always does. 

“Bed,” Alfie says and doesn’t seem surprised in the slightest when Tommy says “No.” instantly.

He’s still moving at a glacial pace, but he’s not stopping either, coming closer until he’s standing right in front of Tommy again, chest to chest. For a long second, they’re just staring at each other. Then Alfie raises his cane, fits it back underneath Tommy’s chin, tips it up casually, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to inspect something he might buy. 

Tommy bites his lower lip, just to see what’ll happen, and Alfie makes a low noise in the back of his throat. 

“Look at you,” he says, sounding almost reverent. “Pretty as anything. The fuck you’re being so bloody difficult for, hm? S’entirely unnecessary, mate, is what that is.”

“M’not being difficult,” Tommy says, which is a blatant lie. 

“No?”

“No.”

Alfie sways forward then and kisses him. It feels like sticky summer heat, Alfie fitting their mouths together like it’s the most familiar thing in the world. Tommy is so distracted by the sensation he forgets to react at first; just stands there and kisses him back, cane still a hard point of pressure against his neck. 

Then he gets his bearings again, pulls back and smacks Alfie right across the face. 

Alfie doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even react at first, even though the slap was hard enough for his cheek to turn red. Just keeps his eyes closed and sighs, like Tommy is a child that keeps trying to kick him in the shins. When he blinks his eyes open, there’s a strange glint to them, something confident and predatory that makes some animal instinct inside of Tommy flare up; makes him want to flinch away and draw closer at the same time, heart pounding. 

“You do that again, mate,” Alfie says, eerily calm, like they’re having a casual discussion about what they are going to have for dinner. “And I promise you right fucking now, yeah – I’m gonna fuck you through the bed and put you away wet after, and you’re not gonna like it.”

Tommy stares at him for a few seconds, nostrils flaring. Then he slaps him again.

Alfie must have expected him to, because he’s ready for it; not quick enough to keep Tommy’s palm from connecting again, probably not even trying to do that, but he catches Tommy’s hand right after, crushing his wrist in an iron grip that feels like it’s grinding down to the bones. Tommy tries to tug his arm away and to the side, experimental, not even trying to get out of it and Alfie uses that moment to body-check him. 

It’s a lopsided move – leading with his bad side, shoulder first, good leg planted firmly and taking most of his weight. He’s surprisingly quick about it and what’s more, it comes totally unexpected, even though it probably shouldn’t, so Tommy stumbles backwards before he even really knows what’s happening, topples over when he hits the edge of the mattress with the back of his knees. 

He goes down hard, which is fine, because he lands squarely on the mattress, bouncing a bit on impact. Alfie catches his own forward momentum with practiced ease, manages to put his cane down before he has to put too much weight onto his bad leg. Tommy pushes himself up onto his elbows immediately, ignoring the throbbing in his own shoulder and collarbone. By the feeling of it, there are definitely going to be bruises tomorrow. 

From this angle, Alfie looks as imposing as a fucking building, staring down at him with something that almost looks like confusion; like he’s not entirely sure how Tommy got here or what he’s doing, sprawled out on the bed. Then he brandishes his cane, carefully touches it to Tommy’s knee, and pushes. Tommy resists a bit at first, just because he can, before giving in and letting his leg fall to the side. 

Alfie hums at that, a deep, satisfied noise that seems to shiver through the entire room. Puts a knee on top of the mattress and traces the tip of his cane along the inside of Tommy’s leg, up and up, until it’s pressing into the crease of his thigh, right next to Tommy’s balls. Tommy resists the urge to roll his hips. Alfie can probably tell he wants to, anyway, but that’s not the point.

“You gonna take these off?” Alfie says, meaning Tommy’s underwear, because he finally seems to have figured out he’s going to have an easier time trying to negotiate than giving orders. 

“You want me to?” Tommy says. He’s squirming around now, just a bit. The single pressure point of the cane shouldn’t be such a fucking turn on, but here they are.

Alfie is watching him like a hawk, tilting his head a bit at the question. “Well, see, that depends, now doesn’t it?” he says. “Yeah? On whether me answering that in the fuckin’ affirmative is gonna make it _ more _likely you’re gonna do as your told, or less.”

“Guess we’ll have to find out,” Tommy says, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Hmmm,” Alfie says, pensive. He abruptly takes his cane away and sits down on the bed with a grunt, halfway turned towards Tommy, and looks him over slowly, visibly calculating. 

“I’m gonna swear to you,” he says. “Right here, right now, on my mother’s life, mate, I’m not gonna try and put a bullet in your brother. Yeah? _ If _you stop being such a difficult cunt about everything, right, and start being more agreeable.”

Tommy blinks at him, speechless, feels himself flushing hot all over; not even entirely sure if it’s anger or arousal. Probably both. Pushes himself into an upright position and closes the space between them on the mattress, until they’re face to face. 

“Who the fuck,” he growls, “...do you think you are? Eh?”

“Right fuckin’ now, by the way,” Alfie adds, unimpressed. “Case that wasn’t obvious.”

God, Tommy _ hates _him. Hates everything about him, his face, his beard, his scar, his messy hair and the knowing look in his eyes. Hates the way he smells, and that up close, he’s radiating heat. Hates the fact that this is turning him on – that Alfie just said that out loud, not even feeling bad about it, that he’s willing to make this into some kind of game. 

“You gonna try and be a fuckin’ prick again, mate?” Alfie murmurs. “Hmm?”

Tommy’s not even sure how they got so close, all of a sudden, but before he can even answer the question, Alfie’s hand is on his neck, fingers curling loosely under Tommy’s jaw before gripping tight, holding him in place, and then they’re kissing. Alfie’s other hand ends up on Tommy’s thigh, sliding inwards until he’s groping his cock through the fabric, working him roughly.

Tommy makes a low noise, surging forward and into him. 

They kiss for a long while, clutching at each other, until Alfie, still holding him by the jaw, guides him away a few inches. “Do us a favor and go get the oil, mate, yeah?”

_ “Fuck _ you,” Tommy says reflexively. His mouth feels used already, numb from kissing, the area around it tender with beard burn. “M’not doing you any fuckin’ favors.”

“The fuck we just agree on,” Alfie says and he’s gently pushing him away by the jaw. “Hm? ‘Bout you being more agreeable and all that?”

“Go to hell,” Tommy says, because they didn't agree on anything at all – leave it to Alfie to just carry on like they did anyway. Alfie’s hand slips to the top of his head and into his hair, making a fist. It hurts a bit, but Tommy resolutely doesn’t react. Alfie’s pulling him close again, staring at him for a few seconds like he’s trying to read him, trying to figure out what Tommy is thinking, before he licks over Tommy’s lower lip; playfulness a stark contrast to the steel grip he has on Tommy’s hair.

“You either get the fuckin’ oil, mate,” he murmurs then, presses a kiss to the corner of Tommy’s mouth. “Or we’re gonna do it without. Hm? Up to you, innit. Whichever you prefer.” 

Tommy sways into him with a soft sound and kisses him again, can’t even help himself. Alfie kisses him back instantly, easy as anything. 

“Get your fuckin’ hands off of me, then,” Tommy eventually pants, and Alfie tightens his grip for a few seconds just to show he can, making him wince, before he finally lets go. Tommy considers hitting him again, except Alfie is obviously expecting him to, Tommy can see it in his eyes, so he doesn’t. Starts moving instead, slow and reluctant; clambers over the bed until he reaches the nightstand on Alfie’s side. 

As always, the drawer is filled with an amalgam of random things – pencils and buttons and loose bullets, frayed pieces of string and empty piece of paper, clean handkerchiefs and a broken pocket watch and some pieces of jewelry that look actually valuable. Somewhere in the middle of it all, used and familiar, is the vial with oil.

He takes it out and leaves the drawer open out of spite. When he turns around again, Alfie has maneuvered himself onto the bed and is leaning against the headboard, fingers casually interlaced over his stomach, watching Tommy with what would be mild interest if it wasn’t for the look in his eyes, his gaze raking over Tommy with barely concealed want.

Tommy stays where he is. On a whim, he throws the vial of oil with a flick of his wrist – half expects it to hit Alfie square in the chest, but Alfie actually manages to get his arm up in time, fumbling a bit but ultimately catching it in one fist. 

“Oi!” he says, mock outrage in his voice. 

Tommy smirks at him. “Just being agreeable.”

“Ohhh yeah, mate, yeah,” Alfie says and he’s trying not to look amused now, even though he so clearly is. _ “That’s _what that was.” 

This is _ insane, _ Tommy thinks. Can’t help but wonder how this whole situation might seem to an outsider, all of a sudden – what a stranger would make of their interactions. Licks at his lower lip again, just because he can, just so he can watch Alfie watch him as he does it.

“You plannin’ on coming back over here, yeah, at some point this evening?” Alfie says.

“You gonna take any of that off?” Tommy counters, which is a fair question, because Alfie is still wearing… well, basically _ everything. _ He’s down to his shirtsleeves because of the late hour, but it’s not the only layer he’s wearing, Tommy _ knows. _ Alfie hums, a pensive sound. Folds his hands over his stomach again, vial of oil between them.

“Nahh, don’t think so, mate,” he says then. “If it’s so important to you, right... _ you _fuckin’ do it.”

“As long as you keep your fucking hands to yourself,” Tommy says. He shuffles across the mattress on his knees, before stradling Alfie and sinking down into his lap. Alfie is watching him without blinking, like he can’t miss a single second of anything, head tilted up towards him without being self-conscious about it in the slightest. The full-body contact of Tommy settling down makes both of them exhale, makes Tommy feel shaky with arousal all of a sudden. He can see Alfie’s fingers twitch where he’s folded them, and resists the urge to grind against him, just a bit.

“How's this gonna work, then?” Alfie says, low and raspy. “Hmm? You gonna _ think _my shirt off really hard?”

“Not my fucking problem,” Tommy says and starts unbuttoning. 

Alfie moves his hands out of the way, right one still holding onto the oil. Doesn’t put them on Tommy’s thighs, the way he most certainly would have if this was any other night, but flat on the mattress instead. Tommy is well aware he’s being stared at, but pretends to be focused on his task, which is why it comes as a surprise when Alfie suddenly pushes himself up and into his space, and catches his mouth again.

Tommy slaps him, partly just out of reflex, except this time Alfie grabs his wrist immediately after he’s done; wrenches it away without being gentle about it and just keeps kissing him. 

Tommy bites at his tongue, manages to hiss “The fuck’d I tell you-” against his mouth and Alfie growls back “S’not my fuckin’ _ hand _ though, is it-” which makes no sense at all, because it _ is, _ he’s using it to grip Tommy’s wrist like he’s trying to grind the bones there into dust, and Tommy can’t even bring himself to _ care, _too busy digging the fingers of his other hand into the meat of Alfie’s shoulder, kissing him hard and like he’s never going to stop.

It should be brutal and yet, somehow it isn't, turned into a slick slide of lips and tongues, the occasional hint of teeth. They're rocking against each other without finesse or self-control. Alfie's hard as well, Tommy can feel him through the material of his pants, hot and insistent underneath Tommy’s thigh. 

He’s not exactly uncooperative when Tommy wrenches the shirt off his shoulders, before he starts pulling the undershirt over his head, but he’s not helping either. As always, his skin is very warm and _ fuck, _ Tommy honestly fucking _ hates _the broad expanse of his shoulders, hates that he can't stop himself from smoothing his hands over them. Alfie is busy grabbing at his arse, first over Tommy’s underwear, then under it, sliding his palm inside, and all of a sudden they’re unified, moving frantically with the same goal in mind. 

Tommy scrambles off of him to shed his remaining layer of clothing, can see Alfie unbutton his fly out of the corner of his eye, before he shoves everything down to mid-thigh, doesn’t even have the decency to take it all off entirely. Tommy couldn’t care less if he fucking tried, back to straddling him again in no time, and watches him uncork the oil with a strange, feverish buzzing inside his head. 

Alfie works a finger inside of him first, slow but inexorable, coating his own cock at the same time with his other hand. Tommy stares down, mesmerized by the visual – the way the muscles in his underarm shift, the way his cockhead is pushing through his fingers, blunt and dark with blood, the way the oil makes everything glisten – and doesn't really register what this might mean at first. Only catches on when Alfie pushes a second finger in alongside the first in no time at all, not trying to be cruel, but very deliberate, not softening the sensation in any way. 

“What the fuck,” Tommy breathes out, back arching in surprise, stunned and intrigued at the same time. He already knows where this is going. They both do. 

It’s bearable, but definitely uncomfortable. Tommy tries not to squirm, tries to keep his head up, despite the urge to just let it fall forward, to press his forehead against Alfie’s shoulder and let him deal with this. Alfie’s opening him up quickly, almost _ too _efficiently, which is the whole point; fucking into him with two thick fingers, slow and deep, scissoring them a bit, spreading the oil around. Tommy’s moving in time with his thrusts automatically, before he’s even made a conscious decision; holds onto him for better leverage and rocks back onto his fingers. 

“You, right,” Alfie says eventually, voice gone raspy and low. “You ask me very fuckin’ nicely, mate… and you might get a third one before we really get started, yeah?”

There is a second of silence and then he grabs for Tommy’s hand, which is a smart decision on his part, because Tommy half-wrenches it out of his grip almost immediately, trying to smack him again. Can’t use the other hand, because he’s up on his knees and needs to hold on for balance. 

“Yeahhh, s’what I thought,” Alfie says, looking almost smug, before he takes on the strange, business-like air that never fails to be a turn-on when they’re in bed, whatever the fucking reason may be. “Fine then, have it your way. Right? Here we go.”

He pushes into Tommy two more times, quick and precise, dragging his fingers over the perfect spot in the process, which makes Tommy bite back a moan, trying to chase the sensation. Then Alfie takes his fingers away, lines himself up and pulls Tommy down with a heavy, unforgiving hand on his hip. His cock feels fucking massive – everything is slick with oil and Tommy does his best not to panic, tries to relax. Still, it seems too big, seems fucking impossible at first, except somehow, probably through sheer will power alone, Alfie manages to push past the initial resistance and sinks inside.

Tommy takes one deep, shocked breath that shudders in and out of him helplessly, and then he stops doing anything at all.

It’s tight – too tight to do anything _ except _hurt, but at the same time, gravity is helping the whole process along and Alfie doesn’t let go of him either, doesn’t give him an inch of control over anything, just pulls him down until he comes to a stop flush against Alfie’s thighs, taking the entire length of his cock in one slow, unbearable slide. 

“Ffffuu-” Tommy chokes out, doesn't even manage the entire curse, _ can't, _ because he feels like he can’t breathe, it’s _ too much, _every muscle in his body tensing up; feels like his spine has liquified at the same time, knees going weak with the pain. 

“Shhhh, shh, see, there we go,” Alfie murmurs against the side of his jaw and it barely even registers. _ “There _we fuckin’ go, hm? Not so fuckin’ feral now, are we? Just look at you, yeah, sweet as anything-”

“Fuck- _ you-” _Tommy hisses, clutching at him for dear life. 

He can feel Alfie press a kiss to the shell of his ear. There’s a steadying arm wrapped around Tommy’s waist now, warm and secure, and Tommy tries to focus on that, tries to breathe through the overwhelming sensation of being full. Doesn’t dare move, except he’s fucking trembling for some reason, can’t seem to stop.

“Easy, mate,” Alfie says. “Doin’ so well, like you’re made for this-”

“You come after my fuckin’ family,” Tommy pants. “And I’m gonna fuckin’ _ ruin _you, all right, you’re gonna wish you were dead-”

“Don’t doubt it for a second,” Alfie says, sounding entirely sincere, and his other hand is curling around Tommy’s cock now, oh Jesus _ fucking Christ, _ it’s too much, at least right this very second, Tommy _ can’t- _

He tries to get away, except it's impossible, because he can’t seem to fucking _ move, _immobilized by the stretch of Alfie’s cock inside of him, every limb feeling shivery and uncoordinated, so he frantically reaches for Alfie’s wrist instead.

“Don’t,” he manages, and maybe it comes out as a moan, maybe it doesn’t, he can’t even bring himself care about that. “Don’t, Alfie, _ fuck- _ do _ not-” _

“Shh, calm down, bloody hell,” Alfie mumbles against his jaw, but he’s miraculously holding still, of his own volition no less, because right now Tommy couldn’t stop him if he wanted to, his grip on Alfie’s underarm completely useless, muscles feeling like water. 

“M’serious,” Tommy says again. “If you _ ever-” _

“I_ won’t, _ ” Alfie says, sounding hoarse and very exasperated. “All right? Yeah? I fuckin’ swear to you, on my life, on my bloody _ dog’s _ life, I won’t, categorically, ‘cross the fuckin’ board, s’over and done with, now can you _ shut the fuck up _ about it-” 

Which is about as far as he gets, because Tommy sways forward and kisses him again.


	2. Chapter 2

They stay put for what feels like a long time. 

Alfie has one arm wrapped around Tommy’s waist and seems content to just wait for him to get his bearings, despite the fact he’s still rock hard inside of Tommy, but he never seems bothered or impatient in situations like this.

It gets easier to breathe after minute or two, but the shaky, boneless feeling doesn’t go away; Tommy’s not even sure how he’s ever going to move like this. He keeps pressing their foreheads together in between kisses, panting against Alfie’s mouth like he’s actually _ doing _something strenuous instead of just sitting there, stuffed full and trembling with it.

“Gotta do this more often,” Alfie murmurs at some point. He’s got his lips pressed against the side of Tommy’s face, gently scraping his teeth against Tommy’s jaw. “Look at how well-behaved you are all of a sudden. Hmmm?”

They’re so close Tommy can basically feel the words rumbling through Alfie’s chest before he says them out loud. Can’t even tell him to fuck off at this point, because everything seems to simultaneously get easier and more intense with every passing second, which makes no fucking sense at all, but here they are.

“Softened you right up, didn’t it,” Alfie continues and for whatever reason, that strikes a nerve, something about the wording pouring down Tommy’s spine like honey, hot and sticky; makes his hips buck all by themselves, just a little, because he can’t actually _ go _anywhere without lifting up, which seems completely out of the question at the moment.

It feels like _ too much _ right away, even as arousal rockets through him, makes him moan. He tries to muffle the sound against Alfie’s neck – can both hear and feel Alfie chuckle at that and all of a sudden Tommy’s so fucking angry again he could spit, in that way he sometimes gets, when he’s livid at this bastard of a man for making Tommy feel like this, _ act _like this, for making him want it this much. 

He’s got his arm up before he’s even made a conscious decision, to hit Alfie over the head, probably, he’s not even sure. This time around, he never even gets that far, because Alfie catches his wrist, easy as anything. Snatches it right out the air, pulling Tommy’s arm down with no resistance, because Tommy couldn’t put up a fucking fight right now if he tried. Alfie seems delighted about the attempt, too – because he’d probably die on the spot if he ever had to have a normal reaction to anything, Tommy thinks bitterly.

“Naahh, mate, don’t think so,” he says, all casual, like he’s trying to remember the name of a distant acquaintance and just knows he’s got the wrong one. His other hand slowly wanders from Tommy’s back to his side, loosely curling around Tommy’s hip. “Right, then.”

“Fuck y-” Tommy growls, and then he has to stop, because Alfie has let go of his wrist and put his free hand on Tommy’s other hip and is now gently guiding him into rolling his hips. Doesn’t help him lift up or anything like that, doesn’t make him fuck himself on Alfie’s cock; just a small forward motion and then backwards again and Tommy fucking _ whines _, a low, hurt sound, hands flying to Alfie’s shoulders, digging his fingers in for leverage, for a connection, for something to hold onto. 

_ “Fuck-” _ he hisses, sounding shocked, “Fuck, oh, _ fffuck-” _

_ “There _ we fuckin’ are, hmmm?” Alfie murmurs into his hair, voice satisfyingly hoarse at least. “That’s better, innit.”

_ No, _ Tommy wants to tell him, and _ yes, _ and oh God, fuck, he’s not going to survive this, it’s too much and it hurts and he wants Alfie to do it again immediately. Alfie seems to be aware of that – maybe he can read it on him somehow, or maybe his patience has just run out, who even knows, the only thing that matters is that he _ does _do it again. 

Tommy is trying to move with him instinctively, helpless and sluggish, sliding right into the bright, clear hurt of it all. There’s a shift in angle the fourth or fifth time Alfie guides his movements, because all of a sudden Alfie's cock, buried impossibly deep inside of him, nudges against his prostate. It makes Tommy flood with pleasure he didn't see coming, wasn't even looking for right in this moment – practically _ drenches _ him in it, coats the pain and everything else in an entirely different light, and leaves him feeling shockingly good. 

He twitches forward, thigh muscles tensing up, moaning so loud he's instantly embarrassed about it. Can feel Alfie freeze underneath him, grip on Tommy’s hips going lax, and digs his fingernails into Alfie’s shoulders as a warning, because no way are they pausing this _ now. _

“Don’t-” he croaks out. “Don’t you... fuckin’ dare stop, come _ on-” _

“Yeah,” Alfie says immediately, nonsensically. “Right, sorry, yeah, my bad, c’mon then-”

It takes a few tries to find the right angle again, but when they do, Tommy practically falls into him, burying his face against the spot where Alfie’s neck meets his shoulder and _ moans _like it’s dragged out of him, can’t even help himself, and tries his best to muffle the noise by pressing it right into Alfie’s skin. 

And the thing is, his body _ wants _ to move, trying to chase the sensation by grinding down, but he _ can’t, _ he really can’t. Alfie is panting wetly against his cheek, grip on Tommy’s hips hard and unforgiving again, carefully pushing him up, just a bit, before pulling him back down. Everything about it feels intense; but by now the pain has quieted down, has morphed to a more gentle kind of hurt, and when he sinks back down onto Alfie’s cock, legs basically giving out _ already, Christ, _ they haven’t even _ done _anything yet, Tommy hisses and bucks and shudders with how good it feels, pleasure shivering down his spine. 

He wants to stay still to catch his breath for a second, but Alfie doesn’t let him recover this time, guides him back up again right away, and Tommy goes, clutching at Alfie’s shoulders for leverage _ – _ because even though he _ can’t, _ at the same time, he also can’t _ not. _So he lifts up a bit and sinks back down again and oh. 

Oh,_ fuck. _

There is one perfectly still moment where they both seem to be too shocked to do anything at all and then it passes, and suddenly they’re both scrambling, trying to get rid of Alfie’s pants. As soon as he’s finished kicking them off, he wraps his arm around Tommy’s waist again, tighter than before and pushes himself away from the wall with a pained grunt, tipping sideways, until he’s flat on his back, lying parallel to the headboard, Tommy slumped on top of him. 

It’s a tight fit, but the bed is just broad enough for it to work, especially when Alfie draws his legs up and plants his feet against the mattress. Tommy tips forward, catches himself on his palms on either side of Alfie’s head. He’s amazed it works out, because his arms feel completely useless, but he somehow, miraculously, manages not to fall flat on his face.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Alfie says beneath him hoarsely, sounding almost reverent. He’s staring like he’s mesmerized, like he always, _ always _does, like he’s never seen Tommy before in his life and is wondering how they even ended up here. Before Tommy can say anything, Alfie’s back to gripping his sides and then he rolls his hips up and into him.

_ “Jesus,” _Tommy manages, except it’s a shaky inhale instead of an actual word, eyes fluttering shut. His whole body is just going with it, instantly, instinctively; moving on its own because it knows what to do. He can feel his arms trembling with the strain and somehow it doesn’t seem to matter at all. 

It’s… a lot. And it shouldn’t work, because it should be too much, too soon, and it probably _ is, _ except for whatever reason it does not fucking matter _ at all. _ Tommy just lets himself be guided, takes every single thrust – lets himself get fucked until there’s sweat collecting in his hairline, first droplet slowly making its way down his spine, until his muscles are burning from the strain and his head is swimming and his mouth feels bruised from biting down on it; until everything feels raw and hot and like it’s _ too much _ in an entirely different way. It’s so good his eyes keep closing, and every time he opens them again he finds Alfie still staring at him, like he never even blinked. 

“Look… look at you, hm,” Alfie says, between gasps. He sounds winded, hair a dishevelled mess, one strand sticking to his forehead, sweat collecting in the dip between his collarbones. “Yeah, you _ look… _bloody fuckin’ hell-”

“Don’t,” and Tommy doesn’t even know what he’s saying at this point, doesn’t even know where this is coming from, except that it feels important somehow. “Don’t, don’t fuck this up? Eh? You _ can’t, _ don’t you _ fuckin’ dare _ fuck this up-”

“Shhh,” Alfie says and it’s not even clear if he’s listening at this point, because he’s clearly babbling. “S’fine, mate, calm down, right, here… here just, just let me...” 

And he lets go of one of Tommy’s hips and reaches for him instead. Tommy’s cock is just an aching, swollen mess at this point, and he can’t help himself, has to let his head hang low and watch Alfie touch it. Looks on helplessly as Alfie curls his fingers around and then Tommy’s whole body is reacting at once, oversensitized, trying to chase the sensation and get away from it at the same time. 

Alfie doesn’t relent this time around, doesn’t give him a break, just strokes him sure and steady – thumb slipping over the slick cockhead and pressing into the sensitive spot right underneath. Tommy can't stop himself from rapidly saying “Fuck, fuck, fuck, _ fuck-” _ in a low, hurt voice, practically _ whimpering _ at this point, and Alfie just… keeps _ going. _ And going. And fucking _ going. _

Tommy feels like he’s trying to curl in on himself when he finally comes, arms just giving out; burrows his face half against Alfie’s shoulder, half against the mattress and suffers through it, coming in long, devastating waves that seem to go on forever. 

Alfie is cupping the back of his head, making soothing noises against his ear. He’s slowly moving inside of Tommy the whole time, like he can't stop himself; the change in angle that happened by Tommy basically falling on top of him is the only thing that keeps the sensation from becoming too intense. 

“Liked that, didn't you?” Alfie rasps against his cheek. “Hmm? That feel good? Yeah?” 

“No,” Tommy manages. “Didn’t.” It's a blatant fucking lie, because he's shaking with aftershocks, everything simmering with pleasure, no tension left in his body at all. 

“Yeah, mate, yeah, it did,” Alfie says immediately and without a hint of doubt in his voice, which should be infuriating, but Tommy can't bring himself to care. Alfie's hands never stop moving restlessly over his skin, pawing at Tommy’s hips, groping his arse. Finally he tightens his grip and a shiver runs through Tommy, like his body knows what’s coming, and then Alfie is _ really _ moving again. 

The first thrust makes the breath whoosh out of Tommy’s nose in a startled exhale and he struggles to push himself upright again. Alfie’s eyes seem to search his face, checking for a reaction; his forehead creasing, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s in concentration or pleasure. Tommy just stares back, not sure if he wants to tell him to stop or keep going, so he doesn’t say anything, mouth still hanging open, trying get air into his lungs. Alfie seems to interpret that as an affirmative, because he shoves up and into Tommy again.

There’s real purpose behind it this time and Tommy’s arms buckle again instantly. He burrows back down again, hiding his face and just lets Alfie fuck him, _ use _ him, lets Alfie selfishly chase his own pleasure. Alfie’s breathing has gone ragged, and he’s holding onto Tommy so hard there’s bound to be bruises tomorrow. He’s also very clearly not trying to get the angle right, but he still hits it perfectly on every other try and Tommy just _ takes _that, too, just lets him do whatever the fuck he wants, shaking helplessly and trying to muffle the whine he can’t help but make, every single time it feels like too much. 

Alfie draws it out for a lot longer than Tommy expected him to, keeps going past the point where anything feels even remotely bearable and he’s effectively turned Tommy into an overstimulated fucking _ mess, _a raw bundle of nerve endings, incapable of any coherent thought whatsoever. 

Finally, _ finally, _ Alfie says “Motherfuckin’ _ hell” _with a voice so scratchy it’s almost unrecognizable and then he takes a wheezing breath and slams up into Tommy with unexpected force, obviously coming. He’s fumbling for the back of Tommy’s head while he rides it out, fingers digging into the back of Tommy’s neck with an iron grip, like he’s trying to keep Tommy close, or maybe like he needs something to hold onto, Tommy’s not sure about anything at this point. 

It takes them an eternity to separate after that. Even after Alfie’s cock has slipped out of him, they stay where they are, until eventually Alfie very gently pushes him off and to the side. They’re almost stuck together at this point, because Tommy’s come has dried between them, peeling off at the separation. Tommy lands right next to him on the mattress, still so close they’re pressed together from shoulder to thigh. He feels boneless in every sense of the world. It’s very possible, he thinks hazily, that he might never move again.

“All right?” Alfie mumbles next to him, voice sounding as wrecked as Tommy feels. 

Tommy makes what he hopes is an affirmative sound in response. Can’t even bring himself to open his eyes, because it feels like too much effort. Clumsily feels around with one hand until he’s found Alfie’s arm instead, and loosley wraps his fingers around Alfie’s wrist. Alfie hums at that, deep in his chest. 

Then there’s another eternity that consists entirely of them lying next to each other in a daze, coming down from everything together. 

“I…” Tommy says eventually. “I’ve got it handled. Eh? Just let me… I’ll deal with it.”

For some strange fucking reason, it feels like one of the most intimate things he’s ever said, heart pounding in his chest. 

“Hmmmm,” Alfie says, unconvinced, but he pets the hand Tommy has still wrapped around his wrist with his free hand a few times, in that lazily affectionate way he does a lot of things with, right after he’s had an orgasm.

“Just to clarify, yeah,” he murmurs then. “If I can’t shoot that brother, right… that mean I get to shoot the other one?”

“Which one?”

“The holy one,” Alfie says, like he has never heard Arthur’s name before in his life. “Saint fuckin’ Shelby.”

“No,” Tommy says, feeling almost weak with relief all of a sudden. “You get to do nothing and you get to shut up about it.”

“Right, yeah, no, absolutely,” Alfie says idly, sounding like he’s a million miles away in his head. “But let’s just assume, right, for the sake of argument, mate, for a fuckin’ second, yeah? That I don’t, right, I don’t feel like doin’ any of that… you gonna bloody batter me again?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says immediately.

_ “Really.” _

“Really.”

“...fuckin’ hell,” Alfie says, but he’s amused now, Tommy doesn’t even have to look at him to know that, can tell just by the sound of his voice. 

“I’ve got it handled,” he says again, just to iterate the point.

“Yeahhh,” Alfie says, drawing it out. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see, won’t we.”

* * *

Tommy barely sleeps during that night, which is not unusual – it is what it always is – except this time around, he keeps thinking about the whole situation, and how to best proceed. John knows and even though he swore he wasn’t going to tell anybody… there are certain things, certain secrets that John is going to take to his grave, Tommy knows this in his bones, but others, not so much. Not because John's going to gossip or anything, but... well. As soon as a one person knows, everybody is going to know eventually, especially as far as Tommy’s family is concerned.

There’s no getting around the fact that Tommy is going to have to try and do damage control here, preferably by getting ahead of the natural progression of things. Get _ some _command over the narrative at least. Polly will have to be told, naturally, because Polly will inevitably find out anyway, not least because John has always been terrible at lying to her. 

Alfie is asleep for all of this, dead to the world as always. 

He’s curled up on his side, which isn’t his preferred position, and usually a pretty clear indicator that his lower back is bothering him. And it's not like Tommy watches him sleep, not exactly, but sometimes it's weirdly relaxing to stare at Alfie in the dark, let his eyes go glassy and out of focus. Watch the rise and fall of Alfie’s chest, listen to him breathe. He doesn’t move around a lot during the night; sometimes there’s deep, rumbling sounds that seem to come from the bottom of his chest or a shallow sigh, and sometimes he'll shift around a bit, twitch of an arm or a leg, but he doesn’t toss and turn.

Tommy’ll need some support to get the best possible outcome and Alfie definitely won’t like that. Well, Tommy thinks, a bit spiteful, not like Alfie has to know about it _ beforehand. _Or even at all. 

To his own surprise, he manages to fall asleep at some point during the night – _ must _have, because all of a sudden it’s dawn, murky grey light illuminating the outlines of the room, and Tommy is blinking his eyes open, with no recollection of how he got to this point. He lies there for a bit, motionless, Alfie still asleep on his side of the bed. 

Some people look peaceful when they sleep, Tommy thinks, maybe a lot younger or innocent, even. Alfie is… none of those things. He seems at ease, yes, but also more... _ uncivilized. _ Which is a weird thing to think about somebody who really _ does _tend to sleep peacefully, five nights out of seven and barely even moves around, but he seems feral in a way Tommy couldn’t put his finger on if he wanted to; and not even in a bad way. There’s a strange, almost animal-like quality to him that makes it seem like he’s on low alert all of the time, like he’d immediately notice if something fishy was going on and has learned to make the most of the time he does have in between.

It should be disturbing, but for whatever fucking reason, Tommy finds it _ endearing _instead. 

After maybe twenty minutes of just lying there, warm and comfortable and somewhat relaxed, he rolls over to the edge of the bed with some trepidation. All of his suspicions are confirmed when he puts his feet onto the floor, because the dull pain is there _ instantly, _crawling all over him. Christ, he thinks, this is going to be a long day.

He makes it to the bathroom to wash up, stilted and awkward – because they’ve cleaned themselves up perfunctorily yesterday, or rather, Alfie did and brought him a back wet flannel afterwards, but Tommy’s still sticky with dried sweat. Rinses himself off in the bathtub with hot water, not bothering to fill it up. Everything still feels weirdly boneless and shivery, like his body hasn’t entirely recovered yet.

He shuffles downstairs after that, in just his trousers and one of Alfie’s cardigans that has been discarded in the bathroom. The stairs turn out to be a challenge, because the ache seems to get more pronounced as time goes on, not less. His initial goal is the kitchen, to put the kettle on, because that’s what he always does. Can’t even seem to remember now how that habit got started in the first place. 

Yesterday’s newspaper is lying on the dresser in the hallway, edges curling, because Alfie has a tendency to roll the paper up and put it in his coat pocket. Some headline catches Tommy’s eye and on a whim, he takes it with him into the kitchen. The room is cool, but not cold, despite the fact he’s barefoot, and he’s feeling sluggish and lazy, so he doesn’t bother with the fire for now. Abandons the thought of sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs after a moment’s consideration, because… well. That won’t be too comfortable right now, he can already tell. 

He spreads the paper out on the kitchen table and leans over it, with his elbows and underarms planted on the tabletop, lights himself a cigarette and starts to read. Gets through two articles and one very political column before he must get lost staring off into space or something, because he only comes to again when there’s noise from upstairs. There’s the tell-tale creaking of the pipes, meaning two things: One, Alfie is awake, and two, he’s drawing himself a bath. Most likely to combat his back pain, Tommy thinks, because that’s usually the only reason Alfie bothers with it in the mornings.

He straightens up, faint ache making him uncoordinated, and decides to get on with the tea.

* * *

When he gets upstairs again with one tea cup in each hand, the bathroom door has been left ajar, so he pushes it open with his shoulder. 

Alfie is in the bathtub, having a soak. He’s got his head tipped back and his eyes closed, arms out of the water and resting on the edges of the tub, but he’s very obviously aware somebody has just walked in.

“Morning,” Tommy says, voice rough with lack of use. 

“Hmmmm,” Alfie says. His hair is slicked back, damp but not dripping wet, probably because he combed through it with his hands earlier. 

“Here you go,” Tommy tells him, which makes Alfie open his eyes. He blinks a few times, almost surprised, or maybe he’s just adjusting to the light.

“You gonna charge for the service, mate,” he says then, but he obediently takes the cup when Tommy puts it onto the edge of the tub, keeping hold of the rim with his fingers so the handle is free to take. 

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees easily. “Gonna require a tip, too.”

He’s half-expecting an appropriately sarcastic response, but Alfie just hums again, more exhale than noise, and tips his head back again. His eyes stay open this time around. Tommy carefully settles down onto the mostly dry bath mat, trying not to wince in the process. Alfie is watching him out of the corner of his eye, not moving his head, and doesn’t protest when Tommy tugs his arm away from the edge of the bathtub, so Tommy can rest his own folded arms there; instead he transfers his cup to his other hand and lets his arm sink deep into the water. 

“How bad?” Tommy says.

“Fuuuuck off,” Alfie says promptly, but there’s no real heat behind it.

“Hm,” Tommy says and sips his tea.

For a few moments, nobody says anything.

“So,” Alfie says eventually. He hasn’t touched his tea yet, but he’s gently rapping his middle finger against the side of the cup now. “You got it under control? Yeah? That what I'm supposed to think?”

“Not yet,” Tommy says, in a strange rush of honesty. “But I’ll handle it.”

“I do believe, yeah, I do believe you've said that already,” Alfie says, narrowing his eyes and pretending to think about it. “Might be wrong about that.”

“Probably,” Tommy says and very calmly drinks his tea. “You almost always are.”

Alfie tilts his head sideways at that; now he’s looking straight at Tommy, corner of his mouth pulling up, smirking at him lazily.

“Am I, now?”

“Yes,” Tom says, unmoved and then can’t help but add, “You’re fucking lucky I don’t have any standards.”

“Now, now,” Alfie says and then he’s regarding his tea cup for a moment, brow furrowing like he’s just now realized it’s even there, and carefully takes his first sip before continuing. “Think we both know that’s not fuckin’ true, mate, now don’t we.”

And well, Tommy thinks, even as he shrugs, pretending to be unsure about this, the thing is… yeah. Yeah. For better or worse, they absolutely do.

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this fucking thing is "is this even hot or am I just procrastinating" and I have been screaming about it to [Cymbelines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymbelines/pseuds/Cymbelines) and [xJuniperx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx) for what feels like days on end now, so. Here it is. I hope it turned out somewhat coherent and not completely terrible.
> 
> I can't even tell anymore. I hate those fictitious disasters so much. WHY ARE THEY LIKE THISSSSSSS.
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
